


Sex pollen, man. So freakin' skeevy.

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: John/Dean sex pollen. I just want Dean riding John in the back of the truck like a slut because he can't help himself, god. No established relationship or underage please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex pollen, man. So freakin' skeevy.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/1037.html?thread=1579789#t1579789).

The damn thing shot Dean right in the face.

"Don't touch anything," John had warned him. "It's all poison. You could be dead in an instant."

"Ooh, certain death," Dean had replied, as if the idea sounded pretty cool to him; he was so cocky. He couldn't help it. He got it from his mother, that serene, cheeky sense of humor. But Dean wasn't stupid, either; ever since that slip-up in Fitchburg long ago, he'd always obeyed John to the letter, been the best damn soldier John had ever worked with. He could trust Dean, especially now that he was older, now that Sam wasn't there to keep an eye on.

That's why he didn't expect it when Dean shouted, "Ah, God, holy motherfucking _shit_!" and crouched to his knees, burying his face in both hands.

John was at his side in an instant, hauling him back up by the collar.

"Get your hands off your face. Don't rub it in. Don't touch anything. Hands down, Dean! You don't touch your face. You don't rub your eyes..."

"Shit. Oh, Dad. Sorry! Got too close. Fucker got me right in the _fucking eye_!"

"Watch your language."

"Fuck!" was Dean's hoarse response as John shoved him out the door, shoved him toward the truck parked just outside.

It had been too patchy with darkness in the greenhouse to see, but the moonlight revealed it all; the skin of Dean's face was red like a sunburn and glistening with whatever that plant had spat out at him. Dean's eyes were squinched tightly shut, and it was obvious he was dying to rub them, get this shit off his face, but John could tell that wasn't a wise idea. If it was venom, real poison, it might burn Dean's eyes out, render him blind, worm its way through his body and eventually kill him. Without letting him go, John dropped his rifle right onto the dirt beneath his boots and went for the flask of holy water tucked inside his jacket just over his heart.

"Hold still."

Dean flinched and cursed a blue streak as John doused his face, emptied the bottle all over it and left him sputtering with the wetness as he jerked his trunk open and dug for another.

"Son. Son. You in pain?"

"Nah. Just. Stings like a bitch!"

"Told you not to rub it in," John said, barely keeping a lid on the situation. "Hold out your hands."

Dean did, and they were shaking there in the moonlight, the veins in Dean's pale young wrists bulging fat like they were in his neck, like he'd just sprinted five miles and all the blood in him was pumping hard. In fact, that's just what he was breathing like, too, panting desperately for air and looking like he was going to keel over onto his knees again, mouth open and deeply flushed face dripping with the water. John emptied bottles of water on Dean's hands, listened to his breathing get ragged.

"Dad," he whimpered, and Dean hadn't whimpered like that in years, not since before his voice had dropped low. "My dick's hard."

"What?" John got out in a startled clip before Dean steamrolled right over him.

"My dick's so fuckin' hard, Jesus Christ..."

For a second, John just stood there, vaguely shocked but every fatherly instinct he had in him on overdrive, every hunter's instinct in him welling up with realization.

"Sit down," he told Dean firmly, slamming the bed of the trunk of the truck with one hand, and Dean crawled up onto it obediently, then sank back on his calves and tore his jacket off, ignoring the cold bite of the October air. Then he flipped onto his back, still young enough to be rubbery like a kid, and shoved his hips up, and even though it was dark, the moonlight caught in a glimmer on Dean's belt buckle, spilled over the tent of his son's dick in his jeans. And God help him, it was huge, impossibly hard, like it was going to bust his zip right open.

"Jesus Christ," John echoed, dumbfounded.

"Gotta get these off," Dean moaned, high-pitched, and struggled blindly with his jeans, his eyes closed either from the pain, the horniness, or the intensity. "Get 'em off. Get it all off..."

Dean was down to a t-shirt, mostly naked, in the back of the truck before John could find it in himself to move closer, try to guage the situation, try not to make a big deal out of the fact that Dean was moaning and squirming like he was getting a blowjob from the frosty open air, thrusting his cock up into it and moving his hips restlessly.

"Dad. Oh, Jesus," came out of of his son's mouth, and -- it was too sexual to be pain, too plaintive and abandoned into the night to be anything Dean was afraid of. "Please. Please, Dad..."

"Dean," he said sharply. "I'm here, son. What do you need me to do?"

"I gotta shoot it out. Eatin' me alive! Fuckin' - wet like a girl, I dunno, feel it leakin' out my ass, fuckin' aches, oh my God. Fuck me, Dad. Quick. Fuck me! You gotta --"

John just stood there as Dean begged, dragging up up everything he can think to do instead -- the hospital. Get Dean there fast. But he didn't trust hospitals. If Dean didn't stop moaning, pleading for John to fuck him -- there was no way there was a good outcome, and frankly, he wasn't remotely sure they could deal with the nastiness that came from pillaging a powerful witch's garden. He could take him to Bobby's, even though the last time he'd seen Bobby, they'd both drawn arms. He could try a spell, but what fucking spell? He could make a deal, but --

"Need something in my ass. Know it, Dad. Please, Dad, please. Beggin' you. Do something! Fuck me. Fuck me raw. Promise I want it, Dad. Gonna die if you don't! Gonna die!"

John could barely feel his knees as he lurched over, touched Dean's leg -- it was burning hot with fever, skin remotely cooled down -- and shakily asked, "You need me to help you, Dean?"

He was barely up in the truck alongside Dean when Dean was scrabbling desperately at his belt, his fly, undoing them and jerking John's jeans down, more desperately than the hungriest, drunkest woman John had ever been with. He swallowed and clenched his jaw resolutely, not knowing how on earth he was going to get hard for this, but Dean just grabbed at his cock, gasping, and something stirred in him, deep and dark.

"That what you need, son?"

"Get hard for me, Dad," Dean begged, and his hand was burning hot, wet in the crevices of his palm from the holy water and from sweat. "Gonna sit on you so fucking good, need it so bad - need you to fuck it outta me again. Fuckin' ram it outta me... drippin' wet everywhere..."

It was true. John could see thin, shining strings of precome shoving up out of Dean's cock every other second, as if his heartbeat was shoving a massive overload out of him, the stuff gushing out of his slit like he was an open wound.

"All right, son. All right. C'mon, let's take care of you," John said, voice scraping out of his throat past a huge lump of painfully mixed horror and arousal. The insides of Dean's slim thighs were all wet, too, wetter than if he'd been a woman there on top of John; he was sluicing that same clear liquid, and it was slippery and warm as Dean dropped himself down, crammed the entirety of John's cock into him in one harsh thrust that made him howl raw. God, his son, his baby boy; he'd never heard a noise like that out of him, not ever --

"Dad, never done anal," Dean grunted, and gasped. "Feels so good."

"Ride me," ordered John, trying to keep a realistic grip on the situation, reminding himself that Dean needed to sweat this fever out or die of it, fuck his brains out or they'd shut down on him. Dean obeyed him joyously, his butt clenching John's cock on every bounce, his hands rigid fists threatening to tear John's shirt in two as he held onto it like reins. "Harder," John ordered, half-moaning. "Harder, son. Fuck yourself on my cock, c'mon!"

"Wanna bust my ass open on you. Jesus Christ! God, Dad, never felt like this," Dean choked. The truck was rocking under them, the wheels buoying them, and John had never felt anything like this either, Dean's ass slipping up his dick tighter than a fist, practically milking him, sloppy-wet inside with fluids that kept gushing down and wetting the both of them. His son's cock was still profusely shooting out precome, making it look like Dean was repeatedly shooting off all over the both of them, and that fucking plant was a powerful sonofabitch, Jesus.

"Take what you need, Dean," John grunted, only hanging onto reality with one hand, the other gripping at Dean's shaking, burning hot thigh. "Come on. Get there for me."

Dean did, blasting off a wet, thick load between them without any further help, but it wasn't over yet. He kept bucking, his moans turning to cries, begging, a litany of dangerous-sounding _please, Dad, please, nail me, oh God, c'mon_ that escalated quickly into another orgasm. Then another. Dean was dripping sweat and come when he finally clunked down to an abrupt halt; John had lost all self-control and dumped his load in his son's ass, too far-gone and caught up with it to think twice, but Dean seemed to grind to a stop immediately thereafter, as if that's what he'd been working his body half to death for all along.

"Son?" John panted, reaching up to hold Dean's face.

"Thanks," was what rattled out of Dean in an exhausted, frightened whisper. "Thanks..."

"Is it out of you?" John demanded.

"I think so... I dunno..." gasped Dean, and folded, just a pile of exhausted limbs, right down on top of John. He wrapped his arms around his quivering son.

"You don't go near that plant again," was all he could think to say, hugging him tightly.

Dean didn't sass him that time -- just sobbed into his shoulder, "Yes, sir."

"Witches," John muttered, tugging Dean's abandoned jacket over and covering him with it. "So freaking skeevy."


End file.
